“The Ts will be back—in good time.” He put the boxes on her table. “Coke or Mountain Dew would be good.”
Angie pulled one of each from the fridge, grabbed a bottled water for herself, and picked up plates for the food. “I made up the spare room for you, but you don’t have to stay. Hell, you don’t even need to be here.”
He put his arms around her. “ ’Course I need to be here. And I want to be. Both for you and for Jake.”
She hugged tight, then had to push him away before she became emotional.
“Take a look at the work I’ve put on the wall and tell me what you think.”
He surveyed it as if he was studying a new painting. “Well, the profiling is not too shabby but I think you’re gonna need a home makeover. That pen will never clean.”
“I know.”
He picked up a slice of pepperoni. Chewed as he mentally worked through the columns, lists, routes and intricate profile points. “Social media. You’ve left it out completely.”
“I can’t stick Twitter feeds to a wall; there are so many of them.” She decided to force down a slice of vegetarian with extra olives. “Besides, I’m not that interested in what the public has to say about him.”
“Maybe you should be. He certainly will be. He’ll be watching and reading everything about himself. In fact, you once told me, people don’t kill in public unless they want a public reaction to their killing.”
“I said that?”
“You did. And if you weren’t so tired and stressed you’d be telling me this creep will be all over the social media spectrum, sucking up every mention of himself, trying to feed his ego.”
Chips had a point and she knew it. “Okay. You’re right. We’ve got a gaping hole there. I haven’t been able to stomach watching the TV news, let alone read blogs and crazy chat-room rants.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve made a compilation of top sites, postings and Facebook pages. We can run through them together and then I can work out a social media strategy to deal with him.” He grabbed the TV remote. “Are you up to watching the regular news?”
“I guess I have to be.”
He powered up the set and found a news channel. A report detailed a whole new batch of hurricanes rolling toward poor old Mississippi. Then came a story about the shooting of a businessman in the restrooms at the Olympic Conference Center. The studio anchor threw live to a smart young man in a dark suit, who held a microphone under his chin.
“Investment banker Sean Thornton was gunned down inside a stall in the restrooms early this afternoon, outside a hall where city bankers were holding their annual conference. The fifty-two-year-old was found as the day’s session came to a close and colleagues searched for him. Unconfirmed reports say robbery may be a motive. Mr. Thornton was found minus his credit cards, watch and wallet.”
Angie couldn’t help but jump in. “No one heard the shots?”
“A robbery in a john’s pretty weird,” added Chips. “Unless maybe a ‘new friend’ came on to him.”
Angie pointed at the screen. “He’s married, look. Wife and two kids.”
“Marriage doesn’t stop men having ‘special’ friends, believe me.”
“Too much information, Chips.” After half a slice of pizza Angie felt as if she was exploding. She put the plate down and took a sip of water to wash the gut ache away. “You have any luck finding the errant son of our revered police chief?”
He wiped greasy fingers on a napkin. “Jason John Rawlings split from the family home right after his father had him prosecuted. Last year he moved out of LA and got hospitalized in San Francisco following an overdose of sleeping pills. He’s been unemployed and living on welfare ever since. No fixed abode. He just drifts and scrounges. Cops I talked to say his old man never pulls favors to keep him outta jail. That said, the kid got pulled for illegal possession of a firearm and ammunition in Arizona and walked.”
“How come?”
“Official story is they messed up procedure and had no choice.”
“And the unofficial?”
“Custody sergeant used to work with his old man and did him the favor—maybe without even being asked.”
“Can you dig some more?”
“I can try but don’t hold your breath.”
The TV filled with a caption announcing NEWS JUST IN.
Angie pointed at the remote near his hand. “Turn it up.”
The anchor was now in front of a large background depicting the aftermath of the bombing at the mall memorial.
“Moments ago, the FBI and LAPD revealed they have arrested and charged a man in connection with both the shootings at the Sun Western mall and the bomb attack that followed.”
Up came the familiar and now famous photograph lifted from the grainy CCTV mall footage, showing a young black male in Lakers cap, T-shirt, baggy shorts and sneakers. The anchor explained, “This is the suspect who has been the subject of a nationwide hunt this week.”
Alongside the first picture came a second. It was also blurred but showed another black man in virtually identical clothes holding a MAC-10.
The similarity took Angie’s breath away.
Was this really the monster that slaughtered all the people in the mall?
And Jake?
The anchorman added, “The LAPD have now named him as twenty-three-year-old Aaron Bolt.”
30
The young man in square-framed glasses and a cheap brown suit picked his way through the dank and dirty works depot and knocked on the open door of the tiny office that had belonged to Januk Dudek. He cracked a friendly smile at the seated occupant and said warmly, “Hi, I’ve come to see how you’re getting on.”
Shooter recognized him from his visit to Head Office. This was Gary Hawkins, the VP of operations, a corporate brownnoser and general lackey. “I’m getting on fine.” He wiped his hand on his overalls before offering it politely. “What brings you here at this time?”
Hawkins tentatively shook hands. “As you know, most of our work is at these god-awful hours. What the world messes up during the day, we put right at night. Can I sit down?”
Shooter pulled back the desk so there was enough room for the VP to slide a chair out.
Hawkins squeezed in and settled down. “The thing is, despite a lot of effort, we haven’t been able to trace Mr. Dudek. Disappointingly, he hasn’t responded to any of our calls, texts, mails or even a hand-delivered note to his home.”
“That’s strange.” Shooter did his best to look bemused. “I’ve asked around here and no one heard him talk about a vacation or going away.”
“We think he might have left town. We’ve been through all the data we have on file, called his doctor, even checked hospitals and medical centers. It doesn’t seem he’s ill or being treated anywhere.”
“At least that’s good.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.” Hawkins sounded as though he didn’t care. “This morning, a colleague went to Mr. Dudek’s apartment complex and found no one has seen him for some days.” His tone became even more officious. “Given all those factors, it appears he’s made himself unavailable for work. As I’m sure you know, prolonged and unauthorized absence constitutes gross misconduct and a breach of contract and is therefore a dismissible offense.”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“Well it does. And I’m afraid Mr. Dudek has left us with no option but to terminate his employment.” Hawkins forced out a smile of zero sincerity. “Mr. Taylor, he’s the EVP who spoke to you the other day, has sent me to tell you that he was very impressed with how you stepped forward and have kept things going. So, for a trial period of six months, we’d like to offer you the job of depot supervisor. What do you say?”
Shooter didn’t want to say anything. The way he figured it, somewhere down the line the cops might come calling and the last thing he wanted was to get suspected of killing Januk for his crappy job. “No, thanks.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t mind helping fill the g
ap, but no thanks. I really don’t want the supervisor’s job.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just like being out on the road.” He put his hands down on a set of timesheets and sick notes spread over the dingy cheap desk. “I hate all this stuff.”
“Oh, I see.” Hawkins paused and then eyed him suspiciously. “Is this a money thing? Coz if it is, then of course there’s a pay raise, but not a big one. I should warn you that we’re not going to be held for ransom. There are lots of people out there looking for key managerial jobs like the one we’re offering to you.”
“I’m sure there are. I just don’t wanna do it any longer than necessary.”
Hawkins looked worried. “But you’ll keep acting as supervisor until we find someone?”
“Yeah, I’ll do that. But I want it on record that I don’t want the job. And I have to tell you, if a month from now you haven’t replaced Mr. Dudek, then you’re going to have to replace me, too, because I’ll just walk outta here like he seems to have done.”
Hawkins gave the comment due executive consideration before replying. “We have an agency who’ll find someone. Someone with ambition.” He pushed back his chair, got to his feet and headed to the door. “Oh, by the way, we have also informed the police about Mr. Dudek’s disappearance. I’m telling you because you might get a call from them. Be sure to let us know if you do.” Hawkins walked out without a good-bye.
Shooter went to the office window that overlooked the yard. He watched the lights of the VP’s company Chevy blaze on and then float away into the blackness beyond the depot gates.
He snagged a set of van keys from a nearby row of wall hooks and headed out.
There were two hours before dawn. Three before the end of his shift.
He had just enough time to get things done.
31
Douglas Park, Santa Monica
After their late dinner, Angie and Chips began wading through all the social media comments on the four incidents—the Strawberry Fields massacre, the Sun Western shootings, the memorial bombing and Jake’s murder.
Four hours later, they were still at it.
Chips had run a special software capture program that culled all topic-related comments and pictures from Reddit, Twitter, Tumblr, Flickr, Facebook, MySpace, Deviant Art and a dozen other portals.
He’d divided the haul into three categories: NEWS, POSITIVE COMMENT, and NEGATIVE COMMENT.
NEWS contained a lot of user-generated content, mainly cellphone pictures and videos, plus tweets on body counts, roads closed, emergency numbers and speculation of who was to blame.
POSITIVE COMMENT was a heartwarming flood of messages from the public, thanking the LAPD and FBI for their efforts, offering help and assistance to families of victims and venting their anger at the atrocities and those who caused them.
NEGATIVE was a toxic collection of posts from cop haters, criminals, conspiracy theorists and general scum of the earth.
Angie had been locked in a pensive silence for the past half hour, writing notes and double-checking comments across various social platforms. “Okay”—she stretched her injured arm as best she could and eased away a little cramp—“I think I have some conclusions.”
“I’m all ears,” answered Chips.
“Let’s do consensus first.” She rolled her shoulders to get rid of a crick in her neck. “Most people commenting think the mall shootings and bombings are related and are the work of seasoned terrorists such as Al-Qaeda. The Boston Marathon comes up a lot, people are still scarred from that, and you see it in repeated mentions of Chechen cells and Syria.”
“Strange isn’t it, until April 2013, most Americans had never heard of a Chechen.”
“And most still can’t find Syria on a map.” She looked down at her notes. “In terms of main interest, the public put Sun Western first, Strawberry Fields second and Jake low and last.”
He could see it hurt her to say that. But she was right; his death had been completely overshadowed by the other tragedies. “Jake gets the most sympathetic comments,” he said encouragingly. “I think there’s near universal recognition that he was a good, brave man and his death is a hell of a loss.”
Angie could see that he was trying to lift her spirits. “Thanks.” She pulled over some notes she’d made. “One of the more interesting threads in the conspiracy chats is a suggestion that the attacks were a backlash against poverty.”
“Yeah, I saw that. CNN picked up on it and found some low-rent sociology professor to claim the mall represented America’s rich and the UNSUB saw himself as the embodiment of the poor raging against the injustice of poverty.”
Angie had to stifle a yawn while she stared at the screen of her laptop on the dining table. “I’ve been thinking over what you said earlier about the UNSUB reading everything online about himself.”
“I’m certain he is.”
“Me too.” She sat back and looked straight at him. “Which is why I think there’s a way to make contact with him.”
“Go on.”
“I need you to use your black arts, Chips. Create a virtual me. Give me a new face, name, identity, and build me some edgy false social media memberships and followers.”
“That’s all easy stuff.”
“And when you’ve done it, can you also bounce my IP address to a rented house across the city?”
He smiled. “Lady, I can bounce it to the moon if you like.”
32
Shooter headed home just after dawn.
Everything had gone well. Quicker and slicker than he’d dared hope. LA would soon be waking up to a wonderful surprise.
The road was still quiet but there were god-awful noises coming from inside his compound. As he opened the gates, he could see a pack of stray dogs had gotten in somehow. They were fucking and fighting as if the end of the world was only minutes away. He loaded his arms with half bricks from a mountain of rubble and set about pitching hard.
A scraggy Alsatian got his rhythm ruined by a blow to the shoulder, and two dirt-brown Labs forgot their differences when chunks of brick skittled their legs.
“Get outta here! Go on, get the fuck away from my place!” Shooter closed on them with another barrage of bricks.
They got the message and scampered out of the open gates.
He dropped the rest of his ammunition, closed the compound and brushed brick dust off his hands. All he had to do now was find out how the little bastards had gotten in.
The answer came around the rear of the old shoe factory, in a far corner backing onto a deserted yard and beyond it a footpath and side street. Someone had opened a slit in the wire fence about a yard high all the way to the ground.
He bent low and examined the rusty metal mesh where it had been snipped. The links hadn’t been severed by sharp, single cuts; they’d been chewed away by blunt, cheap wire cutters. Brute strength had been used to twist and snap the more stubborn strands. That sloppy MO ruled out the cops or Feds and probably meant it was either the handiwork of petty thieves intent on stripping the place for metal, or bums looking for somewhere to sleep.
Shooter opened up the app he’d developed for his iPhone and logged in to the building’s surveillance system. He methodically examined each camera feed and only when he’d checked them all again was he content that nothing had been damaged and no one had managed to break in.
Cautiously, he circled the outside of the factory. Around the far side he found an old pallet angled against a wall. There were shoe marks up the outside of the building. Cardboard had been thrown over the coiled razor wire that he’d nailed just below the roof gutters.
Shooter stood on top of the pallet and spotted ripped denim and dried blood on the barbs. Someone had tried to climb it. There was no real sag in any of the strands, so it looked like they’d given up.
He jumped down.
A hand hit the middle of his back. It threw him face-first into the brick. A hard kick took his legs from und
er him. Suddenly he was facedown in the dirt, his hand locked up his back.
“I’m a police officer,” said a male voice. “If you resist arrest, I will use a Taser on you, and if you’re still trouble after that, then I’ll shoot the living fuck out of you, so stay very still.”
33
Culver City
Ruis woke dripping sweat.
In his dreams he’d been shot. Gunned down outside his apartment just as Jake had been.
He was no psychologist, but he knew it meant one of two things. Either he was developing a subconscious fear about his own vulnerability, or else he blamed himself for Jake’s death.
Maybe it was a bit of both.
Had he stayed with Jake, they’d have gone for a very late drink together as they had so many times in the past. They might even have grabbed some food from a 24/7 diner. Either way, it could have saved his boss’s life.
But he’d been tired.
Cried off early because he wanted to rest.
Now it seemed so weak. So wrong.
A look at the clock told Ruis it was almost seven. He’d tossed and turned most of the night, even gotten up twice.
He swung his legs out of bed, creaked off the old mattress and went to the bathroom. As he stood in the shower something else was preying on his mind.
The look on Aaron Bolt’s face.
He’d spent years staring into the eyes of killers, and there was no doubt the man they’d arrested had taken lives. It was in his unblinking stare; his hard, challenging gaze; and his cocky, arrogant look. All of that was consistent with a cold-blooded murderer, but when Pryce had gone into details about the mall, there’d been no hiding the guy’s surprise. It hadn’t been outrage at being linked to such an atrocity. It had been genuine shock. Bemusement, then blank but honest denial.
Pryce had felt different. The cop had been absolutely sure he’d gotten his man. And that was worrying Ruis, too.
He turned off the water and pulled on a terry-cloth robe. Water ran down his legs and he left wet footprints on the imitation oak boards as he walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of juice. He swigged straight from the box and took it with him to the sofa.
Spree Page 33
